In Need of a Doctor
by TheDoctorsCompanion13
Summary: A year has come and gone since the events at Reichenbach Falls and John still mourns the loss of Sherlock. He had lost all hope of his return when a John Doe who looks exactly like him comes into his hospital. John/Cumberbatch!Master.
1. Chapter 1

One year. Three-hundred and sixty-five days since the death of Sherlock Holmes. No matter how much time passed, it didn't make it any easier for John Watson, the man he left behind. The earth continued to turn, life moved at its normal pace, but everything slowed to a crawl for John. He never received the memo that it was okay to continue living.

He sat alone in the darkened flat he and Sherlock used to share at 221b Baker Street. He curled himself into the chair he always sat in, a mug of tea nestled in his hands, untouched and cooled. He was lost in his thoughts, remembering Sherlock to keep himself sane, or insane; he wasn't sure. The only times John bothered to leave the flat were for shopping and his work at the hospital. It was only a few weeks ago that he started talking to his colleagues again.

The dull orange glow outside of his windows spoke of early morning, another sleepless night. John had nightmares when he closed his eyes. He never wanted to be so grief stricken but Sherlock made a home under his skin, a disease that was difficult to cure. He hoped that he would be better at the one year mark but his sadness refused to lessen. He was still as depressed as ever and he hated himself for it. He hated Sherlock for it too. John didn't budge an inch as the hours passed, sitting in that chair as the sun rose, until it was finally time to prepare for work.

He brought himself to life like a possessed statue moving from its perch. He walked with stiff limbs to the kitchen sink where he dumped out the cold tea and dropped off the mug. He dragged his tired body to the shower, spending most of the time just standing under the lukewarm water. He dressed in a trance-like state, pulling on each article without thinking. Trousers, shirt, jumper, socks, shoes. He barely remembered putting them on. He left the flat exactly on time, like clockwork, and walked the fairly short distance to the small hospital.

He walked into the hospital with his head down and his walls up as he attempted to rush to his office. A few people offered solemn hellos and he reluctantly returned them. He passed by Sarah, an action that always caused a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, but he moved fast enough that she didn't notice him until he closed his office door. He sighed in relief when he was in the safety of his four walls and hoped for a quiet day of clinic duty and paperwork. Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed about an hour into his shift.

"Doctor Watson," a woman's voice called as she knocked on his door. "We have an emergency."

John sighed, standing up and pulling on his white coat as he rushed out of the room. "What is it?"

"A John Doe, found unconscious, going into cardiac arrest. We're almost positive it's ventricular tachycardia."

John's brain kicked in, all of his attention focused on the problem at hand. Thoughts of sadness and Sherlock were pushed aside as he jogged with the nurse to the small emergency room. He saw the patient lying on the bed, freshly rolled in, without actually seeing him. He noticed only that he was a man and in need of help. He checked his vitals on the machine he'd been hastily hooked up to and the nurse was right in her diagnosis. The man's heart was beating at twice the normal rate.

"Someone get a crash trolley!" he shouted, setting to work.

Another nurse ran in with the trolley and he quickly prepped the defibrillator, grabbing the paddles. He intended to shock his heart into a normal rhythm when the John Doe sat up, inhaling sharply. Everyone around the table froze, shocked at the sudden awakening, and watched as he exhaled what appeared to be gold dust. It glittered in midair for a moment, twisting with the breeze, until it dissipated. The John Doe's eyes were wide with shock and confusion. He didn't know where he was.

He looked down at the wires attached to him, tugging on them in panicked restraint. His muscles flexed as he pulled on them, his pale skin showing every bulging vein. The nurses attempted to hold him down, joined by a couple of doctors who noticed the commotion, but even with five people, including John, he was too strong to be held. He ripped his arm free by pulling the wires out of the machine they were hooked to and removed them from his flesh. Blood trickled down his arm from the open holes, staining his skin.

"Sir, please," John said, still trying frantically to hold down one of his legs. "We're trying to help you!"

"Help me? You can't help me, human," he croaked, then paused, appearing startled by the sound of his own voice.

The sound of it struck John like a fist to his jaw. He felt sick as the deep, silky tone assaulted his ears. His grip on the man's leg loosened as he looked, really looked, at his face. He staggered back, hand to his mouth in an expression of shock and fear. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, tall, lean body, grey eyes. The only difference was the hair; short and ginger rather than dark and shaggy. It was him, it had to be, because it was his face. Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock?" he asked in a small voice, but the man still heard him.

"Who?" he asked with mild interest as he shrugged off the many hands that tried to keep him down.

He stood up swiftly, knocking back the few people who still believed he could be restrained. He wore black jeans and matching sneakers, his chest bare since the nursing staff had to cut off his shirt out of necessity. He didn't appear to be concerned with his bare torso, being far more interested in his fingers as he flexed them. He examined his hands and arms and chest as if he'd never seen them before. He explored his face with his hands, tracing his cheekbones, feeling out his nose and chin. He ran his long, slender fingers through his ginger curls, plucking at them like guitar strings.

"Sherlock, is that you?" John asked a little louder, hope lightening his tone.

The strange man turned to face John, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who is this Sherlock you keep asking about?"

"He's you," John insisted.

"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else," he replied shortly, stepping toward John.

"Even your voice is the same," John said, breathlessly.

"Is it?" he asked, stealing another step as his head cocked to the side. "Interesting. Have I stolen a man's visage? I don't believe that's ever happened to me before."

Without another word, he turned to leave and no one stopped him. John watched him go, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He was almost out of sight when John found his voice again.

"Sherlock, wait!" he called.

"I'm not Sherlock," he replied as he walked through the emergency room doors.

The whole room stayed silent for a second, a screaming silence filled with unanswered questions. They all stared until the double doors clicked shut behind him, breaking the silence. John was still slack-jawed, unsure of what just happened.

"Doctor Watson," one of the nurses started. "What just-"

"I don't… I just… need to go home," he sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

John rubbed his eyes, feeling a dull throb starting just behind them. He walked slowly back to his office to hang up his coat before leaving, feeling the eyes of those who witnessed the display boring into his back. He passed Sarah on his way out, not caring enough to avoid her, and mumbled "I'm not feeling well" as he left the building to walk home.

He slumped back to Baker Street, having almost completely convinced himself he'd finally lost his mind. John was tired and confused. He had been so sure that man was Sherlock; there was no way he couldn't be. They looked exactly the same except this Sherlock was ginger. He either needed a good night's sleep or a bed in an institution.

He walked into his building and up to the door of his flat. He started to dig in his pocket for his keys when he realized that they were missing. Panicked, he searched his other pockets to find his wallet missing as well. John cursed under his breath and looked back at the door helplessly when he noticed light filtering through a crack between the door and the frame. It was open. Someone stole his key and broke into his flat.

He froze, staring at the sliver of space before pushing the door open. It swung forward silently, showing his flat just as he'd left it but he knew something had to be wrong. He stepped in warily, looking around for anything out of place or anyone hiding. He didn't notice anything missing or moved in the main room but kept looking. He treaded lightly, padding across the carpet as he peered into the kitchen. Nothing wrong there. Next to check was the bedroom.

He approached the door frame carefully and scanned the bare room. Everything that belonged to Sherlock had been packed away, not leaving much left which made it easier for John to see what was taken. An empty space on his nightstand glared at him, telling him what had been stolen. The question was why.

An outline of dust marked the place where a picture frame stood. The picture in question was of himself and Sherlock, candidly snapped by his sister Harry one night out at a bar. They sat at opposite sides of a table, each with a beer in their hands, deep in conversation. Neither of them realized it had been taken until it was gifted to John as a birthday present. Sherlock was never one for nostalgia or memories, meaning that this was the only picture of Sherlock in existence as an adult and John wanted it back. He clenched his fists in anger and frustration, wondering who would want the picture, when a voice cut through his thoughts.

"So, this is what I look like," Sherlock's voice said from behind him.

He spun around to see the man from the hospital standing behind him. He still wore no shirt and held a very familiar picture frame in his hands.

"Sher-"

"No!" the man snapped, looking up from the picture. "I'm not Sherlock. I'm the Master."

"The… Master?" he laughed nervously, relaxing his fingers unconsciously. "You're joking right?"

The man studied John so intensely that he looked shockingly even more like Sherlock. "I may have a gifted sense of sarcasm when the mood is right but I don't joke."

"No…" he said slowly, swallowing his nerves. "I can see that."

The Master's eyes found their way back to the picture frame. His stare burned into the picture, scanning every aspect before looking back up at John. John watched him carefully, still seeing him as Sherlock but he began to notice the subtle differences. Sherlock always seemed like a god among men but this man felt like an actual god. His presence exuded great power and confidence. He looked down at John as if he owned him. Then there were his eyes. His eyes told him that he wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were cold in a distant, observational way; this man's eyes, the Master's eyes, were iced over with hatred and, just beneath the surface, insanity.

"How did you get in here?" John asked.

"Oh, I stole your wallet and keys," he said nonchalantly as he patted his pockets with a free hand before pulling out the beaten, brown wallet and a set of keys.

"You stole my wallet and keys. And then broke into my home," John snapped, snatching his belongings from the Master's hand.

"It's not breaking in if I have a key."

"THAT YOU STOLE!"

"Shh," he hissed sharply, showing off that spark of insanity. It quickly cooled, retreating behind an emotional barrier before he spoke again.

"Do you own a mirror, John?" the Master asked, voicing the question as if he'd known him all of his life. He played on John's emotions and the army doctor was starting to fall for it.

"In, uh, in the bathroom," he sighed, yielding to his will.

"Thank you," he smiled, sincere and cold.

John knew that this man wasn't good, he could feel his skin prickle and hair rise at the smile, but he couldn't see past his appearance. It was all he could focus on. It was a crippling blindness that the Master planned on taking full advantage of. The Master left the bedroom and glided away in search of the bathroom with alien grace. John watched him go, following after him when he walked out of sight. When he caught up with him, the Master was examining himself in the mirror with the photo propped up on the sink counter. He compared himself to the photo and viewed his own features as if they were brand new to him.

"What are you doing?" John asked, standing in the doorway.

"Looking over my new body," he replied as if it were completely normal. "You were right. There is a clear resemblance to this Sherlock of yours. We could be twins."

"Yes, you could be," John agreed, looking the Master over, eyes lingering on his bare chest.

"This is a rare occurrence, taking on the form of an existing being, a human especially. It's not a bad body. Fairly attractive." He turned to John, arms splayed in presentation. "What do you think?"

"It's… good. Yeah," he replied, blood rushing to his face. "Wait, did you walk here without a shirt?"

"Yes," he replied simply, turning back to the mirror. "You cut off my shirt-"

"-Well, I didn't personally but-"

"-and I didn't want to steal one and draw unneeded attention to myself. Don't worry yourself. I traveled through deserted roads." He seemed particularly interested in his eyes and cheekbones. "I looked for clothes belonging to your… friend but I didn't find anything."

He turned back to John, walking toward him until he managed to trap him against a wall and moved his face to be eye level with John's. "Why?"

"Because… he's gone," John answered, unable to look anywhere but the Master's eyes.

"Gone where?" he asked icily.

"Dead. He's dead. He died."

The Master pulled his face back, standing up straight as he peered down at John. "I see."

He studied John's face carefully, seemingly reading his thoughts and emotions. He stared at John, looking him in the eye long enough to make him uncomfortable. John squirmed beneath his stare, unable to escape from it until the Master broke his hypnotic hold. The half naked man left the room and headed back to the bedroom. John sighed, wondering what he had fallen into as he followed him.

John walked in on the Master hunched over in his closet as he riffled through taped up boxes. A feeling of violation consumed him. This man wearing Sherlock's face just marched into his life and started tearing through it like he owned it. And he was letting him.


	3. Chapter 3

"What… what are you doing?"

"You said he was dead, therefore you most likely packed his belongings away. I need clothes. We wear the same body. His clothes will fit."

"Yes, but you can't just-"

"He's dead and it's one outfit."

"It's wrong."

"Ooh, how sweet. You think I care."

John had nothing to say to that. What could he say? What could he do? The Master sifted through Sherlock's personal items until he found his clothes. He pulled out suits, shirts, and jeans until he found the right outfit. He began undressing in front of John shamelessly, pulling off his jeans without caring if the army doctor saw. John turned away, red-faced at the display. He turned back after a minute to check if he was fully dressed.

John's jaw dropped open at the sight. The Master was making it harder and harder to distinguish between himself and Sherlock. A tailored black suit with a matching button-down, obviously incapable of buttoning his shirt all the way, just as Sherlock used to be. John stole an involuntary step forward until he noticed the ginger hair and stopped in his tracks. It wasn't Sherlock, so why did he keep thinking it was?

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Doctor Watson," the Master rumbled as a smirk played on his lips. "I know you're attracted to this body."

John sputtered, as if he were choking on air. His cheeks burned hot at the accusation for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. He shielded his face with his hand and turned back around, partly out of shame and partly because he didn't want the Master to know he was right. He waited with his back turned as the flush cooled down but his suspicion rose when he noticed the eerie silence in the room. He started to turn, expecting to see no one there to prove his insanity, when a pair of hands sliding across his hips stopped him.

He could feel breath, hot on the back of his head, disrupting his hair. He was rendered immobile as the hands continued to move, gliding across his waistline, charging his body with electricity. The flush returned, making all the hard work to clear it up useless. The Master's body pressed close against his to leave no space between them. His hands found their way under John's shirt, stroking the bare skin.

"Oh, John," he moaned roughly into John's ear.

"Sherlock," he replied, breathless and desperate.

"Mm," he hummed contentedly, his fingers playing along John's waistband, tracing softly along his hipbones.

The gentle teasing drove John mad. The Master dragged his fingertips over every inch of skin he could get his hands on as John arched into him. John groaned as if in pain and he was. He needed Sherlock so urgently that it hurt him physically. That was his problem; he forgot it wasn't Sherlock again. The Master thrust his hips, taunting John with what he wanted but keeping it just out of reach. It wasn't until John turned to look at him that reality hit him like a brick.

John paused, all lust lost. "Stop."

"Make me," he growled, pushing himself even closer to John, closing a space he didn't know existed.

John elbowed him in the gut and quickly spun around, fist raised to punch him in the jaw, when his arm stopped in midair. John glanced over at it, unsure of what stopped him until he noticed the slender, porcelain fingers gripping his forearm. He frowned, turning his gaze to the Master's face. He looked anything but pleased, his jaw clenched and his eyes on fire with rage. John felt the instinctive urge to cower, to run with his tail between his legs, but a stronger stubborn courage kept him still. The Master twisted John's arm, forcing him to turn with it unless he wanted his arm to be ripped from its socket. With his back to the Master and his arm trapped and useless, he felt more helpless than he'd ever felt. The Master was pulling a power play.

He pressed himself back against John, more to incapacitate him that anything. "I could have you right now and there would be nothing you could do to stop me."

"True, but you won't," John said confidently even though his legs shook under his weight.

"No," the Master admitted, loosening his grip. "I won't. But I need you to know who's in control here. You're mine, doctor, and you will act accordingly."

John stayed silent, processing his words.

The Master tugged hard on his arm and John could feel the joint shift as he hissed in pain. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes," John conceded.

"Yes what?"

He knew what he wanted to hear and the word tasted bitter on his tongue but if he wanted to live, he had to cooperate. "Yes… Master."

"Good," the Master said, releasing his arm.

John staggered away, turning to face him as he massaged shoulder back into place. It hurt but he ignored the pain; he had already been shamed and weakened. He could afford to show any more vulnerabilities. His expression and stance were stoic as he stared down the Master. It had been a whirlwind of a day and it wasn't even over yet. He wished he'd stayed at work.

The Master gripped John's face, stroking his cheeks affectionately. His face softened, replacing anger with tenderness. He was a master of manipulation. John leaned into the touch, something about him broke down his walls and he started to realize it wasn't just his appearance. His eyes held a hypnotic quality, a gaze that built a home deep in his subconscious and almost controlled his thoughts. It was an explanation as to why, when the Master leaned in for a kiss, he kissed back.

The kiss was soft and sweet and stayed soft and sweet, something gentle to lure him into a false sense of security. The Master pulled away, leaving John to sway on the balls of his feet like a drugged man or an infatuated teenage girl. His eyes were clouded as if in a haze but it dissipated without the Master's touch to keep it going. His thoughts slowly and visibly shifted into focus as his expression changed from dreamy to alert. He stared up at the Master and pushed him away with all of his strength. He stumbled backward, mostly to humor John. The army doctor was strong but the Time Lord was stronger.

"Leave," John growled. "Get out of my flat!"

"If I leave, you're coming with me."

"Says who?"

"You, John," the Master smiled.

"You're psychically bonded to this form. At this point, you can't live without me."

"You're lying."

"Would you like to test it?"

John looked hesitant, unsure if he was telling the truth. He stared into the Master's eyes and questioned his humanity. His face was decidedly human, as was his body, but his eyes acted as a gateway to something completely different. The Master noticed the alteration in his thoughts and his smile widened.

"Come along, doctor. We have things to do."


	4. Chapter 4

~Two Years in the Future~

A man in a black leather motorbike jacket and a blue striped scarf walked hesitantly down Baker Street. He'd parked his bike around the corner because he didn't want to be heard or noticed. His shined dress shoes clicked against the sidewalk because he couldn't bring himself to buy biker boots. He stole a deep breath and stopped just outside of 221b.

He straightened his jacket, flashing a purple dress shirt because his old habits were hard to break. He examined himself in the window of Speedy's, tucking back a few unruly dark curls. He felt almost sick from nerves. Three long years without seeing his street, his flat, and his flatmate. Sherlock wasn't sure of the reaction he would receive but as long as John didn't fire a bullet through him, he thought it would be a success. Another deep, reassuring breath filled his lungs before he built up the courage to open the door.

He walked into the building, shutting the door behind him, and looked around. Everything seemed to be the same, as if he never left, but something he couldn't see was different. It may have been a feeling in the air or the blaring silence that screamed around him; he wasn't sure and that unnerved him. He sighed, just to hear a sound, and glanced up at the door of his flat. He walked over it to it, uncertain if he wanted John to be in or not, and knocked.

The knock resonated through the building and his body. Long after his knuckles left the door, he could hear it. The volume of it hurt as much as the wait. A minute passed with no answer and Sherlock's resolve began to disperse. He couldn't hear anything coming from the other side of the door, no footsteps or the rustling of life, so he turned his sight to the door with 221a on the front.

If John wasn't in, Mrs. Hudson would have to do. She may know where his flatmate ran off to. He strode up to her door and knocked, hearing her footsteps shuffling across the floor just seconds after. He waited and watched the doorknob turn, the door opening just enough for an eye to peek through. Sherlock watched as the lone eye on the other side of the door widened in fear at the sight of him. Fear wasn't what he was going for but anything was better than anger.

The door flew open to reveal Mrs. Hudson, standing as far away from the threshold as possible while still holding on to the door. Sherlock smiled, his expression pained as he flinched under the weight of his own thoughts and assumptions.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he said, worried she would cry or hit him. Or both.

The fear in her eyes transformed into shock as she stared more closely at the man in her doorway. "Sherlock?" Sherlock, dear, is that you?"

"Yes. I'm, er, back!" He tugged at the hem of his jacket as he spoke.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, tears shining as they gathered in her eyes. She stepped out into the main room and threw her arms around Sherlock's lanky frame, catching him off guard. If he expected anything, it certainly wasn't that. When she was finished, she held him at arm's length, looking him up and down in disbelief.

"I just… We thought… You're supposed to be dead," she said, voicing all of her thoughts at once.

"I had to stay dead for the safety of everyone connected to me but it's safe for me to return now."

The sorrow in Mrs. Hudson's face at that statement was indescribable. She dropped her arms as her features drooped. She couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. "It's not as safe as you think, dear."

His nose crinkled as he frowned. "What do you…" He paused, remembering something. "Where's John?"

Mrs. Hudson's sadness seemed to deepen, folding in on herself like a black hole of grief. Sherlock shifted his weight between his feet, expressing his uneasiness at her reaction.

"Has he moved?" Sherlock asked, hoping that was the problem because his landlady's expression didn't allow for much hope.

"Not exactly."

His heart dropped from his body while his stomach twisted and turned in his gut. "He is still alive, isn't he?"

She nodded. His body relaxed until she spoke again.

"If you can call it living."

He looked over at the door of his old flat and back at Mrs. Hudson. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She bit her bottom lip, deciding whether to answer or not. She shook her head and looked away from him, staring hard at the door of her own flat, thinking about running. It would've been so much easier to run but she stayed and looked up at him.

"It's difficult to explain. It's best if I just show you."

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded. He was nervous about what Mrs. Hudson had to show him but he needed to know, even if it broke his heart. His landlady opened the front door and tentatively stepped out onto the paved ground with Sherlock at her heels.

They didn't have far to walk before Sherlock saw what she had been talking about. They traveled down the street to the first intersection and she pointed out a billboard he somehow missed in his initial flurry of emotion. He followed where she pointed and his jaw dropped. Hundreds of thoughts, feelings, and questions ran through him at once, causing him to short-circuit.

"Oh," he managed to say.

In that exact moment, a blue box coasted past the planet Earth with a lone being inside. That being, the Doctor, gazed upon the blue-green planet teeming with life from the screen attached to the TARDIS console. He knew the Master was down there. He knew the moment the Master escaped from the Time Lock. He felt it so deeply that it shook his DNA.

As he stared at Earth, he considered leaving him there for the briefest half-second but it lasted long enough to scold himself for thinking it at all. For as long as he could remember, the Master had been his responsibility. Whatever he was up to on the Doctor's adopted planet, it wasn't good and he needed to stop him. The Doctor, in his TARDIS, straightened his bowtie and flew in for a landing.


End file.
